


Damsel

by beetle



Series: DAMSEL [2]
Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Banter, Bullying, But he's a gentleman, But still legal Wade, Damsel in Distress, Drag Queens, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Meetings, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Genderfluid, Hate Crimes, Hate Speech, Hurt Wade, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet-Cute, Omnisexual Peter, Other, Peter's not wrapped too tight, Pre-Slash, Pre-Weapon X, Spideypool - Freeform, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Wade Saves Peter, Young Wade, genderqueer Wade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Part one of the "Damsel" series. After a late show at Blind Al’s Menagerie, up-and coming drag-performer, Vagina Saskatchewan, is on her way home when she gets jumped by four angry, violent bigots. Luckily for the cornered damsel in dis-dress, a certain friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man crashes the party and saves the day. And that fortuitous rescue? Is only the beginning. Written for Pyroperception’s prompt (most of it, sort of), in full in the end notes. (And now, with terrible cover art by me!)Notes/Warnings: AU in which Weapon X? Didn’t happen. Yet. And that’s all the notes you're gonna get, for now. Warnings, though for triggering, homophobic language and a violent, semi-graphic hate-crime.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyroperception](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyroperception/gifts).



                                                   

 

“Hey, faggot!”

 

Face and ears burning, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring, Vagina Saskatchewan—a.k.a _Wade Winston Wilson_ —continued her sexy-and-I-know-it slink toward the other end of the alley behind _Blind Al’s Menagerie_ with nary a slip or stumble. This, even with the red, size fourteen, ankle-breaker stilettos she was wearing and the unpleasant realization that despite only _one_ voice shouting slurs at her since moments after the side door shut and locked behind her, there were, from the mutters and low, mean laughter, at least _five_ of them.

 

“Yo! I’m talkin’ to you, bitch!

 

Sadly, there was only _one_ of Vagina. And even though she was a lean, mean scrapper in a fight—an underdog with a heart of gold and a devastating right-hook—five against one was long-odds that _didn’t_ bode well . . . especially when that _one_? Was wearing a suicidally tight outfit of white vinyl corset, black vinyl mini-skirt, the aforementioned cherry-red stilettos, and carrying a dinky, dumb, damn white vinyl purse that was too small to hold mace. A Very Important Thing, which she’d been carrying habitually since the day after the first time she’d gotten her ass stomped outside a notorious gay club back in Ontario, when she was just a seventeen years old runaway with a fake ID and the balls to finally _use_ it.

 

But the tiny, useless—cute and kitschy, like, OMIGOD!—purse certainly held the _perfect_ shade of lipstick ( _Death by Sin_ ) that matched the stilettos; her recently-acquired New York State non-driver ID and her bank card, as well as three condoms . . . because you never knew; two wadded up, but clean tissues; a half-finished pack of spearmint Trident; and her ancient iPhone 5. Not to mention the stupid rape-whistle ‘Nessa’s idiot, on-again/off-again boyfriend, Weasel, had gotten Vagina as a gag-gift last Christmas. But the keychain-sized can of mace her first-best-only friend _and_ inspiration, none other than scene-queen _Vanessa Carlyle_ , had given her when she’d first started making a name for herself on the drag-circuit and staying out till five in the morning? Nah. _Way_ too small for _that_ old thing!

 

 _Really, I’m just a complete_ dunce _of the first water_ , Vagina thought, pretty sure that this night would be _the_ _night_ she finally got her ticket punched after twenty hard-luck, but never-dull years of surprising, violent, hardscrabble, curious _life_ on this odd, cruel . . . achingly beautiful planet. Tonight was the night it’d all end, and she knew that at least the moments when her life flashed before her eyes wouldn’t be _boring_ ones. So she nevertheless held her head up high, and kept her shoulders back and her spine straight. She tried to hurry without _looking_ like she was, toward the egress of the alley and the literal light at the end of that tunnel, which heralded possible safety.

 

“What’s yer hurry, bruh? Careful, now, or you’ll break an ankle!”

 

She didn’t _dare_ glance back at the pack of jackals who were, she sensed, getting closer, _fast_. Their snickers and whispers to each other seemed to be drawing uncomfortably nearer.

 

 _Okay, deal-time, Fairy Dragmother, if you’re even out there_ , Vagina prayed fervently, fighting a wildly inappropriate case of the giggles. _If you keep me from meeting my maker tonight, I promise to_ never _plan my act around It’s Raining Men again . . . never. You know, unless it’s an_ emergency _and shit. See, it’s just that I get overwhelmed, sometimes, and take the easy road. But if you help me outta this with minimal effort and damage, I will_ ever after _be your_ fiercest _and fightin’-est angel! I’ll pay it forward so hard, your_ head’ll _spin!_

 

Vagina _really_ hoped that the ringing silence that followed meant assent.

 

As it stood, it was all she could do not to yank the long, sleek chestnut wig off her head, kick off the damn stilettos and fucking _bolt_ for relative safety. But she knew that, as with any predators, showing them the least little bit of fear or uncertainty would only provoke them.

 

And _running_ would make her _prey_ , in their pitiless eyes.

 

So, she continued her confident, long-striding, hip-swinging, ass-popping strut, eyes gone wide, now, shaking hands balled into fists at her sides. The cessation of the angry slurs and cruel guffaws only made her heart pound faster, like a doomed rabbit nonetheless trying to out-race winter-starved wolves. . . .

 

 _Show no fear_ , she told herself sternly, unaware she was silently mouthing the words, as well. _If you could fend off Dad and his bullying, psychopath-friends you can deal with_ these _fucking losers. Just pay ‘em no mind and make it to the light. Once you reach the light, you’ll be_ safe _. Once you reach the_ light _, they can’t tou—_

 

Vagina was a mere few yards from the mouth of the alley when suddenly, soundlessly, they were _on_ _her_ —tackling her mid-peptalk, and bearing her to the ground where she hit with a shocked, pained grunt, landing hard half-on her left arm and scraping it, as well as her already-scarred knees. All the wind was knocked out of her, and half the _sense_ , too.

 

By the time the latter came back, _they_ had dragged her upright again, holding her that way in spite of her rubbery legs and suddenly, unusually precarious heels. Two of them held her tight and still, with carelessly cruel hands biting into her fairly impressive biceps, while one of the other two— _Oh . . . there’re only_ four _of them, not five_ , Vagina noted grunting as the one on the left really wrenched her arm, almost out of its shoulder-socket—a big bruiser with a couple of inches on Vagina (who was six-two and a half), and _certainly_ a couple dozen pounds on her streamlined one hundred and ninety-seven pounds of swimmer’s muscle, began punching that last bit of sense out of her without preamble or comment.

 

It wasn’t long before her struggles against the pair holding her stopped entirely and she sagged in their grips, as blow after blow landed dead-center in her abs and sometimes directly on her _ribs_. It hurt like a motherfucker, and she was helpless against the pain of it, and the tears that sprang to her eyes.

 

The fourth guy, a squirrely, little loser of a bystanding cheer-bully, who kind of looked like Peter Lorre on meth, watched and cackled wildly, egging his buddies on with “Yeah!” and “Get ‘im!” and “Fuck ‘im up, bro!”

 

And he wasn’t egging-on in vain, sadly for Vagina. The huge bruiser alternated between those devastating gut-punches and face-punches that, while lacking in technique, were still dismayingly powerful. The very _first_ one practically spun Vagina’s head around on her neck and totally knocked her expensive, _gorgeous_ wig to the dirty, piss-soaked and garbage-strewn ground.

 

The second one snapped her head back and, with a bright, startling flash of pain, her nose was broken and pouring hot, thick blood down her face. She moaned and choked, sagging even more in her captors’ hands as they laughed and shook her and laughed some more. . . .

 

“Fuck—hold ‘im up! Hold ‘im _up_!” the bruiser commanded rather shrilly for such a big dude, pausing his pummeling to glare at his comrades, who tightened their grips. The one on Vagina’s right let go of Vagina’s arm to single-handedly yank her head up by her shaggy, chin-length, medium-brown hair. She groaned, snuffling and spitting blood, though more of it seemed to be running down the back of her throat, now, than out of her sharply-aching nose. The bruiser jumped back, making a sound of disgust before gut-punching her again, his cold, Atlantic-blue eyes contemptuous and enraged.

 

“D’ja see _that_? Fucker’s prolly got AIDS and who _knows_ what else!” he claimed, sounding aghast and almost horrified, despite his angry face. “He tried to _infect_ me! You saw it, right, Doug?”

 

“Fuckin’-A, Truck! Kick ‘is _ass_!” the squirrely guy enouraged, still laughing his nervous, stupid laugh. Vagina—who, really, in _this_ moment, was mostly _Wade_ , once more, in spite of still wearing _Vagina’s_ now bloody, dirty clothes—found herself leering at _Truck,_ and attempting to wink her swelling left eye and curve her busted, bleeding lips in her customary sexy smirk.

 

“Don’t wanna do _that_ , Truck-baby . . . I just might _like_ it,” she slurred, horking and spitting another mouthful of blood at the bruiser, who made an almost missish sound of disgust and jumped back again, obviously freaked out.

 

Then, he was glaring ferociously at Vagina and cracking his knuckles ominously.

 

“You’re gonna _pay_ for that, faggot,” Truck promised dourly, stepping closer again. “I guaran-goddamn- _tee_ it.”

 

 _I regret none of my life-choices . . . okay, except for the purse_ , Vagina had time to think almost calmly, bracing herself for the cannonball that was clearly headed for her face—her beautiful _face—_ on a mission of wanton destruction. . . .

 

It drove toward her in the sort of slow motion that generally only happened on television, and Vagina closed her eyes and waited for the agonizing shock of impact, and the darkness that was sure to follow—not to mention the likelihood of waking up in Hell, afterwards, with her father for company, no less—but. . . .

 

The agony, darkness, and Hell never came. Neither did her father, because—

 

The punch never _landed_.

 

Four eternal seconds passed, before Vagina cautiously opened her eyes just a bit . . . then, certain she was hallucinating, opened them quite a bit _wider_ in total shock, aching jaw dropping more than enough to allow blood from her nose to leak into her throbbing, also-bleeding mouth.

 

“You know, I think the lady’s had enough of your style of courtship, lads. Time to call it a night,” a masked, red-and-blue spandex-clad figure—seemingly half Truck’s _height_ and a _quarter_ his weight—said pleasantly, in an amused, but somehow flat and otherwise emotionless tenor. In his left hand was Truck’s right fist, halted mere _inches_ from Vagina’s now-crooked nose.

 

In the masked man’s _right_ hand was Truck’s beefy _neck_ —he’d had to reach up more than a _little_ to grab it, but nonetheless had, his square, gloved, outsized hand clenching firmly and warningly around the thick, angry-red column—fingers clearly biting in against some nerve or other. Or maybe just Truck’s wind-pipe. Either way, the man’s eyes were wide with pain and fear, his mouth working with tiny, soundless chuffs.

 

Nearby, the squirrely one— _Doug_ —was backing away from the scene slowly, seemingly unnoticed and attempting to fade into the deeper shadows of the stinking alley. But the masked and costumed man let go of Truck’s hand and, twisting slightly, but fluidly, shot some sort of . . . thread, or something, from his fucking _hand_.

 

Three seconds later Doug was literally stuck to one of the _Menagerie’s_ dumpsters, that white thread—or . . . _Jesus_ , was it a _web_? Like, a _spider’s_ web?—plastering him ankles, waist, and wrists to the rusting metal side of it. There was even a good bit of web covering Doug’s _mouth_ , and the wide-eyed, nervous little man made muffled huffing sounds that were on the verge of panic.

 

Then Vagina found herself falling to her scraped knees—the sheer, silk stockings she’d worn were, she knew, a _complete_ loss—and retching up blood and the last, undigested bit of her lunch from ten hours ago, as the jerks who’d been holding her advanced on the masked man and their ringleader.

 

“You’re gonna _get it_ , freak!” the one on the left promised in a nasally, New Jersey accent, slamming his right fist into his left palm in a way that was probably meant to be menacing, but which didn’t seem to move the masked man at all. Instead, he tsked and chuckled, easily lifting a slightly blue-faced Truck up by his neck.

 

The two who’d been advancing on him stopped in their tracks, watching with wide, suddenly-frightened eyes as Truck struggled, legs swinging in the air—several feet off the ground—and his hands scrabbled ineffectively at the masked man’s long, rangy arm.

 

“Wh-what _are_ you?” the one to Vagina’s left stammered, taking a step back. The one on the right held his ground, but he looked like he was seconds away from haring off into the darkness back toward the _Menagerie’s_ side entrance _,_ abandoning his friends entirely. “S-some kinda f-fuckin’ _mutant_?”

 

“ _Some_ kind or other, yeah,” the masked man agreed wryly, tossing Truck at the wall behind Vagina’s kneeling, panting, _shivering_ figure. The bruiser hit _hard_ , slid down the dirty brick façade, and was, from the sound—or lack thereof—out for the count. “But don’t ask me _which kind_ , buddy, ‘cause if I told ya, I’d have to kill ya.”

 

 The one on the right took off like a purebred greyhound, into the darkness.

 

“Why do they _always run_?” the masked man demanded of no one at all, spreading his hands in hapless faux-ignorance. Then he was firing his . . . _webs_? From his palms again, fast and sharp gestures almost too quick for Vagina to follow with her buzzing, aching head and blurred eyesight. The webs appeared to hit the fleeing bully at the ankles and thighs, binding both legs together, and he went down with a gasp and cry. “I mean, _really_. He _saw_ what I did to his pal, there, right? _Right_?”

 

Again, the masked man wasn’t addressing anyone in _particular_ , but Vagina answered, anyway, breathless and irreverent. “Well, when nature calls, ya just gotta answer, my guy. _Especially_ if that call’s comin’ from _Brown-Town_ , if ya know what I mean.”

 

The masked man snorted out a genuinely surprised laugh, entirely different in tone from his heretofore fake-pleasant, somehow dead-voiced and self-referential, one-sided banter.

 

That masked face turned toward Vagina, who was still on her knees with one arm wrapped around her aching middle, and the other coming up to wipe across her damaged face and gushing nose. She left a long line of blood and phlegm up her scraped, bare-but-bangled left forearm.

 

“Wow . . . beautiful _and_ funny?” Vagina could see her rescuer waggling his eyebrows ridiculously, even through the mask. “Be still, my beating heart . . . I think I might be in love. Hey—I’m not trying to be a douche, or enforce a tired gender-role _and stereotypically_ _female_ skill on you, but . . . can you _cook, too_?”

 

Vagina was the one to snort, now, then she coughed, horked, and spat more bloody-phlegm. After taking a moment to check and make sure her stupid purse was still slung around her neck and shoulder, she reached out with her clean, but shaking arm to retrieve her expensive, human-hair wig and brush it off. “Does the Pope shit in the woods? Not to brag, buddy, but I can make a quiche Lorraine that’d make you bitch-slap a toddler.”

 

The masked man’s hand drifted gracefully up to his chest, settling over his heart as he sighed exaggeratedly. “ _Dear_ my lady,” he said, bowing slightly, in a courtly, old-fashioned way, extending one hand toward Vagina, who blinked blankly. “Please accept my further assistance,” the costumed crusader added after nearly half a minute had passed with no action on Vagina’s wary part.

 

Brow furrowing, she reached out tentatively and put her hand—not at all a _small_ one, but even so, it was slightly smaller than _his_ —out and let him take her hand and help her to her feet. He basically pulled her up with no help from _her,_ and when she once more stood on shaking legs, he gently tugged her to his side, one arm wrapping around her waist and holding her up with strength that was as dizzyingly effortless and instinctively intoxicating, as it was a relief. She leaned against the masked man heavily—she had _at least_  five inches on him . . . possibly twelve, with the heels—slinging her heavy, bloody-phlegmy-barfy arm around his wide, coat-hanger shoulders.

 

“Y’okay, doll-face?” he asked quietly, looking up at her, concern radiating from him like heat—which _also_ radiated from his hard, wiry body—as his arm tightened noticeably around her exposed waist (even at the best of times, the corset, though fierce and fine as Vagina, herself, wasn’t as well-made as she might’ve liked, and had a tendency to ride-up).

 

Vagina tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace as her injured face screamed like a puma. She clutched at her wig like it was a talisman of strength.

 

“Well, _no_ . . . but I’m better than I _was_. Better than I woulda been if you _hadn’t_ shown up, Mr. . . . uh . . . who _are_ you? The Arachnid Avenger?” she asked, scanning his costume and mask. Every inch of him suggested some tie to spiders, from the white webbing-lines crisscrossing his costume, to the spider-logo on his chest.

 

“Oh, I’m no _Avenger_. Didn’t pass the psych-eval,” the masked man said just a _shade_ too nonchalantly to be genuine, and shrugged loosely. Then he tilted his head in a way that denoted unhidden curiosity, obviously giving Vagina a keen once-over. She flushed, but held his white-lensed gaze steadily. “Huh. Don’t you read the _Bugle,_ gorgeous?” he asked, apropos of nothing. Vagina shrugged elegantly, but dismissively.

 

“Nah. I avoid the news at all costs. It’s a real _boner-killer_ ,” she added in explanation, and the masked man snorted another laugh, as if she’d truly tickled him.

 

“Oh, my!” he huffed out between guffaws, his free hand coming up to rest lightly on his stomach. “Oh-oh- _oh_ ,” he said, while tittering almost shrilly—like a _hyena_ or something—bending slightly at the waist, hand still on his abs. “You know, you’re _right!_ The news _is_ a boner-killer. Nothing but bad people doing bad things and good people doing _nothing_. It’s a travesty, alright,” he agreed, but still laughing that uncontrolled, almost helpless laugh. Then he stopped suddenly, like his throat’d been cut, when the last of the four bullies started to edge away toward the light at the end of the alley.

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” the masked man gritted out in a tight, tense voice, his head orienting sharply toward the sidling criminal. Those blank, white lenses were impassive and blandly threatening, and the guy froze, his eyes wide and his entire lanky frame shaking. When next the masked man spoke, he was clearly forcing his voice into some semblance of civility and good humor. “ _Please_ don’t. I _hate_ incapacitating or hurting criminals any more than I absolutely _have_ to, during a decent first date. It, like, puts a real _kibosh_ on the likelihood of me getting a _second_ one, I find.”

 

“ _Second_?” Vagina quirked an eyebrow at her hero and pursed her bloody, swollen, split lips in a way that would’ve otherwise been sexy. “ _Please_. You ain’t _even_ took me _on_ a first, yet, baby. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

 

The vigilante tilted his head again, somehow giving the impression he was pouting. “Ah, c’mon, gorgeous . . . don’t be like _that_ . . . I saved your life, didn’t I?”

 

“Doesn’t make this a _date_. _I’m_ not that easy, Arachnid-Boy.”

 

“Actually, it’s _Man_. Spider- _Man_ ,” he corrected her cheerfully, then in another one of those sick, speedy wrist-flicks, he webbed the fourth guy until he toppled over, all but cocooned in white, his muffled protests getting higher and higher in pitch as he rolled and rocked on the ground. “And I never said you were _easy_. Though I _was_ hoping you were _cheap_. . . .”

 

“Not _that_ , either, Mr. Man-Spider-Man.” Vagina tried to straighten up and stand on her own, but her ribs complained sharply when she tried to—causing her to clutch at them _hard_ , which didn’t help matters—and her knees gave out almost instantly.

 

But she was, _almost instantly_ , caught in strong, wiry arms, then hoisted up into those arms, bridal-style, and with efficient ease.

 

“Wow. My hero,” she grunted without inflection, gazing into those unchanging, yet somehow _emotive_ lenses. Then she could tell, even with the mask, that her hero was grinning wide.

 

“Well . . . call me _old-fashioned_ , but I don’t like to see a damsel in distress and not help her all I can. A lovely lady such as yourself, alone at this time of night, can be a magnet for . . . _unsavory people_ ,” he said earnestly, and Vagina blushed, at last looking away. She futzed around and fiddled with her now-messy wig before jamming it on her head and attempting to adjust it so that it was at least _less_ _crooked_. She had very limited success.

 

“Yeah, well, I ain’t no _lady_ , _either_.” Vagina glanced back at the hero’s face again, her eyebrows raised pointedly. Because even on her best and _fiercest_ nights, Vagina Saskatchewan, though gorgeous and sexy and _magnetic_ , was very obviously, with her tall, broad, muscular build and square, angularly _handsome_ face—not a cis-woman. And she’d never pretended or _tried_ to be. She was—and proudly wore the title of, no matter how she presented on any given day—genderqueer, with a stereotypically and decidedly _feminine_ bent.

 

And she was a _drag-queen_. A  _damned good one_ , too. One with a cult-following and a steadily rising star. “Got too much gear in the under-carriage, to be a _lady_ , if ya get me. Surprised?” she snarked sardonically. The Spider-Man hesitated before answering, regarding her with palpable consideration.

 

“Eh. You’re not a lady only if _you_ think you’re not,” he said, shrugging and turning them toward the brighter mouth of the alley. He stepped over the cocooned fourth bully, and strode unhurriedly toward the light, his head still tilted at that thoughtful, curious angle. “Everyone else’s opinion can go jump off a bridge.”

 

“Well, it’d certainly be nice if reality worked that way, Spidey,” Vagina allowed, shrugging, too. When they emerged onto the well-lit street, the Spider-Man paused, looking neither right nor left, nor ahead. Instead, he focused his attention on Vagina for long moments, till she blushed and looked away, simultaneously tightening her strong arms around his neck.

 

“You may think you’re not a _lady_ , doll-face, but I can tell ya, _right now_ . . . you’re one _hell_ of a woman,” he said in that strangely earnest voice, his hands—under the backs of her knees and around her waist—tightened in a supportive squeeze. Then he turned left and started walking again. Vagina didn't know _what_ to say to his last comment. But sooner, rather than later, she was saved from having to respond.

 

“I’d still like that second date, y’know?” he added in that too-casual, flippant voice, though there was an undercurrent of tension flowing through it, and in the set of his broad shoulders. Vagina gaped and blushed for a few seconds before clearing her throat. Her mouth tasted like pennies and stomach-acid.

 

“Lemme guess, Arachnid-Boy . . . ya saw some kinky pornos in college, in a buddy’s dorm-room, and now, ya gotta thing for chicks with dicks?”

 

“Well, not _exactly_ —and, really . . . it’s _Spider-Man_ —but I gotta thing for _you_ , so . . . I suppose I do,” he mused, sounding mildly amused, but not unpleasantly surprised, as she’d thought he might. Then he snorted. “Have a thing for _a_ chick with a dick, I mean. At least enough of a thing to wanna get to know her _better_. Maybe over vending machine snacks at the Emergency Room, after she’s been stitched up? Till the doctors have security toss us out?”

 

Vagina laughed suddenly, unwillingly, and raucously, despite the ache of her entire face and her bruised ribs. “Oh, _Spidey_ . . . you’re . . . _adorbs_ ,” she said when her laughter had tapered off into giggles. “ _Who else_ would wanna hang out in an E.R. to wait for a busted-up drag-queen to get put back together, then eat stale _Doritos_ and drink _Snapple_ with her till she’s discharged? _Who else_?”

 

The Spider-Man crossed the street at the corner—looking both ways and certainly not jaywalking, waiting patiently for the light, instead—allowing time for her laughter to fade to the occasional giggle before saying: “Well, probably not a _lot_ of other people,” he admitted sheepishly. “But I don’t think either of us are striving to _be_ like a lot of _other people_.”

 

“Point,” Vagina conceded, clutching even tighter at the Spider-Man’s neck as sporadic _hee-hees!_ escaped her in pained wheezes. “Look, pal, you’re a real hero—saved my life and shit. And for that, I’m grateful. But what _I_ don’t get is why you’re . . . flirting? Joking? _Whatever_ with me. Are you _that_ bored an’ lonely?”

 

 _Now_ , the Spider-Man stopped walking, halfway down the current street, his lenses aimed intently at her face. She blushed again under that intense regard.

 

“Sometimes . . . but mostly I’m just an old-fashioned sorta guy, or at least I tell myself I am. When I meet a lady whom I find funny and smart and interesting, etc., I try my best to be charming and witty and . . . _courtly_. None of which includes bluntly telling her that I think that even beat to Hell and back, she’s the _smoking-hottest_ woman I’ve ever seen. And that carrying her in my arms—hell, just _looking_ at her—does primitive, truly _wonderful_ things to parts of my anatomy that are best not mentioned in polite company. That I find her more fascinating than my own mutated mitochondrial DNA, and would always  _deeply_ regret not taking or _making_ the opportunity to get to know her better, even while on my death-bed. And that aside from all that great inner-beauty stuff, I not only think she’s pretty about the _face_ — _stunning and regal_ —but that I really dig her _body_ , too. Every tall, strong, sculpted, _muscular_ inch of her.”

 

The Spider-Man fell silent once more, staring at Vagina for another minute before resuming his stride down the street. Vagina knew that he was taking them to _Mercy General_ , which was less than a quarter-mile south. “Yeah, well, that’s all well and good, Spidey, but you’re forgetting some other, uh, _sculpted inches_ of me. Eight of 'em, in fact,” she added, once more pointed and sarcastic. The Spider-Man chuckled, low and long.

 

“May I be blunt? And probably crude, as well? Pussy and dick aren’t mutually exclusive likes, to my way of thinking,” he said slowly, a smile in his voice. “It’s possible to like _both_ , whether sequentially or concurrently.” He shrugged. “Gender’s never been a deal-breaker for me when it comes to attraction. _This_ spider-guy’s omnisexual.”

 

“How wonderful for you,” Vagina said flatly—despite her surprising and _strong_ feelings of instant kinship with this wise-cracking, strangely _gentlemanly_ , avenging weirdo—suddenly angry for no reason she could put her finger on or explain to herself. “ _You’ve_ clearly got a heart as big as all outdoors, Spider-Man.”

 

“Meh. Call me _Peter,_ if you want _._ ”

 

“Why the _hell_ would I wanna—” Vagina started, then fell silent as her brain caught up with her quick mouth. “Wait, is that . . . is that who you are when . . . you know . . . when you’re _not_ the Spider-Man?”

 

“Pretty, funny, cooks, _and_ quick-on-the-uptake? _Me-ow_! Spidey _like_! And, yep, that’s the name my Mama gave me! Of course, now that you know it, you _have_ to date me,” the Spider-Man— _Peter_ —enthused in that playful-tense-tight voice. This time, _Vagina_ was the one to tilt her head in curiosity and consideration, that unreasoning anger deflating like a punctured balloon, leaving her scrambling for agency and direction.

 

“Uh, knowing a guy’s name has _never_ been an incentive for me to _date_ them. In all fairness, nor is it a prerequisite for me to fuck them,” she added bluntly, then sighed at her own lack of brain-to-mouth filter. “And anyway, you can’t _emotionally-blackmail_ an injured, vulnerable girl into _dating_ you, that’s . . . that’s _wrong_. Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of hero-vigilante guy?”

 

“Well . . . I see myself as more of an anti-hero,” Peter admitted jauntily. “I won’t lie, baby-cakes . . . I’ve gotta dark side.”

 

Forgetting her busted schnozz for a moment, Vagina snorted, then whined pitifully, hand reflexively coming up to cover her left-canting nose. When the pain finally let up enough that tears stopped springing to her light-brown eyes and rolling down her dirty-bloody face, she sighed again, gustily, her hand dropping away from her face. The Spider-Man made a sound of empathetic commiseration.

 

“Okay, how ‘bout this, Mr. Peter Spiderman—” she began, relenting haltingly, but almost humbly. He was quick to interrupt her.

 

“Seriously, now, it’s Spider-dash-Man, _not_ _Spiderman_. It’s not a surname, y’know.”

 

“Ha! Whatever, Spides. Anyway, you fill out all the E.R. paperwork-shit—I’ll tell you my info—and hold my hand while they set my nose and stitch up my lips, and . . . _maybe_ we can split a _Snapple Apple_ and a bag of stale _Famous Amos Cookies_ ,” she offered warily, her swollen, probably bruised and blackening eyes narrowing just a bit. “After _that_ . . . we’ll see how it goes. Deal?”

 

That big grin stretched the mask across Peter’s face, entirely visible through the fabric.

 

“Hey, it’s not a ‘no,’ so I’m thrilled!” he said, all earnestness and sincerity once again. “Oh, but I don’t even, um, know your name. . . .”

 

“Vagina,” she said and could all but _see_ Peter’s smile falter and his eyes— _whatever_ color they were—go wide, then blink blankly. “Vagina Saskatchewan. But, uh . . . that’s my stage-name. My civilian name’s _Wade_.”

 

“Oh . . . uh . . . okay. Cool beans. Um, which name do you _prefer_ to be called? And what pronouns do you want me to use?”

 

“Depends on what I’m wearing, really. And how I’m _feeling_. Right now, though . . . I’m definitely _she_. Still about ninety percent Miss Vagina Saskatchewan,” she said challengingly, trying to gauge Peter’s reaction without ripping off his silly, red mask.

 

In the end, she didn’t. Merely waited out the gaze of those white lenses until, finally, Peter shook his head a little.

 

“May I ask you something, uh, V-Vagina?”

 

“Sure, Spidey. But I reserve the right to not answer if I don’t wanna.”

 

“Uh, yeah, of course. Fair enough. Well . . . I was just wondering . . . why’d you choose the name _Vagina_ _Saskatchewan_?” he asked hesitantly, but somberly, as if the answer actually _mattered_ to him, but he was desperately trying not to offend. Vagina shrugged again, leaning her tired, aching head close to his, till it rested against the side of Peter’s face. His body heat was pretty intense, warming her almost to the point of discomfort.

 

“Because I’m _Canadian_ , of course,” she murmured, closing her tired, burning eyes. He was weird, but she trusted him to get them where they were going. Trusted him _period_ , in a way and with a speed that she wasn’t prepared to examine just yet. “ _Duh_. Born and raised in good, ol’ Regina, Saskatchewan.”

 

After a few moments of obvious surprise, Peter snorted. “ _Ah_. Ah, of course,” he agreed, holding her a little tighter and all but bouncing down the street for the renewed spring in his borderline-strutting step. “That, uh . . . that makes a lot of sense, Vagina.”

 

“Mm . . . but you _can_ call me _Wade_ , if that’s . . . _easier_ for you, Peter,” she said with weary meekness that was _totally_ unlike her. Peter hummed, then laughed.

 

“Well, if _you_ can remember not to call me _Arachnid-Boy_ , I _think_ I can bear to call you whatever _you want_ me to call you, ‘Gina. Okay?”

 

Vagina smirked a little, opening her eyes and feeling unaccountably smug and flirtatious.

 

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Spidey. And who knows? If you’re a real _good_ spiderling, I _may just_ letcha walk me home tonight.”

 

“Somethin’ to look forward to, that,” Peter said brightly, without even a _small_ trace of the sarcasm she sensed he was capable of. “And maybe if I play my cards right, might I get a little good-night kiss. . . ?”

 

Vagina quirked her left eyebrow archly.

 

“You _really_ like to push your luck,” she noted tartly, but giving the hero pretty blatant elevator eyes, letting her gaze linger on the area where she imagined his mouth was, before leaning in to press her still sharply-twinging lips against that spot. She’d guessed right, it turned out, because Peter huffed a slow, surprised breath that she felt on her lips, hot and humid, and strongly redolent of mint and coffee.

 

He made a soft, almost hungry sound low in his throat, leaning into the kiss just before Vagina leaned back, smirking again and closing her eyes once more.

 

“There. Don’t say I never gave ya nothin’, hero. And _don’t_ go gettin’ your hopes up, either.”

 

She practically _felt_ Peter’s surprise again, then chuckled as he laughed and leaned his forehead against hers.

 

“I’ll try to keep a level head,” he murmured with restrained glee as he started walking again. “Though I’m pretty sure that we’re _mated_ , now, by the standards of my web-slinging kin.”

 

Vagina groaned. “You’re _painfully_ unfunny, y'know.”

 

“Ah, you love it.”

 

Vagina huffed high in her throat and blushed deeply. “Tell yourself that, Spidey,” she said haughtily, then held her peace the rest of the way to the E.R. And Peter— _the Spider-Man_ —for his part, talked enough about nothing and everything for the _both_ of them, his enthusiastic, tangential rambling dancing unpredictably from subject to subject (everything from an article he’d recently read in _Popular Mechanics_ , to why the toast always fell jelly-side down) in a comforting monologue that saw Vagina begin to drift off feeling, for the first time in her brief life, _safe_ . . . in his disproportionately strong, rangy arms.

 

By the time they reached the E.R., Peter had fallen silent and Vagina was snuffling herself awake once more. He carried her in through the automatic doors without pause and ignoring the many eyes that followed them both. He marched up to the check-in desk and the pretty, older receptionist’s mouth dropped open in surprise, a wad of chewed gum falling out and to the paper-littered front-desk.

 

Though still half-asleep, Vagina found her best smirk easily enough.

 

“So, what’s a gal and her knight in shining armor gotta do to get some _service_ up in this bitch?”

 

Peter snorted a quiet laugh and Vagina’s smirk turned into a grin as she held onto him tighter than ever.

 

The receptionist’s mouth worked silently for a minute, then she pointed limply at a pile of clipboards with pens and forms, on the counter above her desk. Vagina rolled her eyes and snatched up a clipboard.

 

“Thanks a lot, hon,” she said and Peter obligingly carried her across to the semi-packed waiting area, and sat her in the middle of three unoccupied seats in a corner, then dropping into the one to her right. Neither of them paid any mind to the open stares of curiosity and/or disapproval they got.

 

“Okie-doke!” Peter said brightly, taking the clipboard when she offered it to him, and sliding a capless, chewed-on pen from under the clip. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

 

Vagina hummed and laid her sleepy, aching head on his lightly-padded shoulder as he started to fill out the forms. She quickly began to drift off once again, answering his questions in a quiet, half-asleep mumble. By the time Peter was done, the gentle susurrus of the waiting area and the scratching of the battered pen had lulled her once more to the edge of consciousness . . . then over. . . .

 

She didn’t stir when Peter took the clipboard back to the desk and returned half a minute later, sitting, and taking her lax, scraped hand.

 

When Vagina’s legal name was finally called, Peter lifted her out of her seat gently, carefully, and carried her to a waiting stretcher (she’d twitched a little at the sound of her civilian name, but hadn’t woken) so smoothly, she remained firmly entrenched in soft, soothing, _safe_ darkness.

 

She was wheeled to an empty cubicle near a busy nurse’s station, Peter by her side the whole way and briefly telling their attending nurse what’d transpired earlier. He held Vagina’s hand the entire time, their fingers linked loosely and his confident, pleasant voice following her even deeper into vague, brightly-colored dreams that—for once—featured no bad memories, _no_ pain . . . and no _fear_.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
>  __  
> “What this fandom desperately needs is more genderqueer Wade. I mean he canonically likes to wear dresses, so you're telling me he has never tried to go or participate in drag shows (with image inducer or Pre!Weapon X)? I just want to read a fic where Wade gets beat up by bigots and Peter flies by in costume and comforts him and they talk and Peter compliments his nails or something and Wade hits on him and Peter freaks out because this drag queen twice his size is giving him eyes, but Wade is way too charming and polite and they end up being cute boyfriends *dreamy eyes*"
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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